Teach Me
by scribblexscratch
Summary: The Capitol isn't familiar with the term "monogamy." Neither is Effie Trinket. Haymitch subconsciously makes a decision to teach her that there are better ways to feel good about yourself, unaware he's fixing himself in the progress. Head-canon ahoy.
1. 1 Effie

_So, I think I should explain this story a bit._

_The Capitol is based largely on Rome. Old Rome. The Rome of debauchery and frivolous dressing and decadent food._

_I'm trying to reflect that in this story, and trying to show the contrast between the Capitol, the very top of Panem, with District 12, the very bottom._

_Let's see how this works out._

…

**EFFIE**

Mother didn't care for Effie's job. In fact, when Effie announced that she had been named escort, Mother instantly assumed one of the upper districts. She was wrong, of course. District 12 was the lowest in Panem.

Mother fainted on the spot.

"Fainted?" Cinna, the stylist, repeated with a wide smile, bent over his sketchbook. Today, his eyes were lined with a glowing emerald green, a curious cosmetic that shed soft phosphorescent spheres with every blink. Effie secretly envied his ability to make a demand for attention without uttering a word. "And this happened recently? Has she not seen you during the televised broadcasts of the Games?"

"Oh, heavens, I told her long ago, Cinna." Effie chuckled unevenly, sitting wobbly atop a tall stool beside Cinna's workspace. One of the legs was a bit shorter than the other, making her believe she would fall unceremoniously to the floor with every little movement. "I was merely making a polite story to ease your inevitable _tension_, dear." She said with forcible bounce.

The strokes he was making with his metallic orange pen paused for a brief second before he continued with too much levity. "Tension? Is it that obvious?"

"Well, obviously." Effie tried to straighten her posture, careful of the flute of fluorescent pink liquor so that it wouldn't spill onto the stylist's work. "It is your first time working for the Capitol, and such an important job. You produce our victors' faces, their…their _look_…oh, what do the French call it…? Dash it, and I _took _conversational French in school…"

"_Je ne sais quoi_," answered a grumble rather than a voice, one that swaggered and swayed as much as its owner's steps. Haymitch tripped over the glittering carpet that separated Cinna's work studio from the polished floors of the penthouse beyond the door. He rested his stocky weight against the doorframe and leered lazily into the room. Drunk. As always. "You ain't the only one who took classes, little lady."

Effie pursed her lips in a glower. "Yes, well, I doubt you even know what it _means_."

"'I don't know what,'" he answered, swishing whatever alcohol he was drinking around in the bottle he had in hand.

"Just as I thought," said Effie primly, noting that her posture felt much straighter than it had just seconds prior.

"No, Effie, he was telling you—"

Haymitch waved his hand for Cinna to stop. "Don't bother. Just settle for the fact the girl can walk and breathe at the same time."

Effie bristled. How dare he? He was always calling her "little lady," or "girl," as though she were so much younger than him, a dithering little nobody that wasn't worth his breath. And she was plenty intelligent! More intelligent than a man who drowned himself in swill that was slowly murdering what brain cells he had left! Haymitch's smug smirk made her want to rip his lips from his face.

"At least I can walk at all, Haymitch. Who was it that was lying in the hallway this morning because he 'forgot how to use his legs?'"

He screwed his mouth upward. Effie noted that his free hand twitched at his side, briefly making a fist. _Stand back, stand back! _she thought to herself, forcing her bottom teeth to stop pressing into the ones on top. Haymitch wouldn't hit a woman—but he was drunk, and he had been forced to do much worse when he was much younger. No, Haymitch was not above hitting a woman.

Haymitch's eyes narrowed, studying her. Effie was suddenly aware of how wide her eyes were. Had he seen her fear?

"So," said Haymitch loudly, "what kinda crazy, over-the-top, eye-catchin' design've you got cooking up for those kids?"

Cinna quickly turned the paper over that he was sketching on. "It isn't quite finished yet."

"A shy artist, are we?" said Effie brightly. "My, isn't that rare?"

"Yeah," Haymitch took a swig from his bottle. "You Capitol types're usually all about—_hic_—makin' big impressions and all that."

"Impressions can be made even if your voice isn't the loudest," said Cinna. "I feel like our tributes have their own voices."

"Doesn't everybody?" asked Effie, sipping from her glass.

Cinna's eyes flickered up and down her frame. She could feel him silently judging her, but she wasn't sure why. "Some people force themselves to speak in the _same _voice, Effie. No, our tributes…they definitely have their own. Peeta's is more subtle than Katniss's, but not quieter. Actually, he might be louder, in a way we just don't hear. Especially Katniss."

Haymitch's weathered face morphed in a knowing smirk.

"What?" Effie leaned forward. "What, what?"

Haymitch chuckled into his hand, while his fingers rubbed his crooked nose. "I'll tell you in a minute. C'mon, let's get outta his hair."

"I don't really mind—"

"No," said Haymitch firmly. "You've got a big job. _You _just focus on making sure those kids don't go unnoticed. Make their voices heard."

Cinna closed his mouth, nodding faintly. There was a small smirk on his lips, likely realizing his great luck in working for a former victor that actually let him do as he felt was needed for their tributes' costumes.

Effie, however, was impressed. For one, Haymitch was speaking coherently. For another, he was making sense, and he was being _useful_. Effie didn't know what to make of it, but the new steadiness in his voice made her smirk. It was high time he took his job as mentor seriously, instead of using his time pestering her.

"Aren't you supposed to be trying your hand at sobriety?" she asked pleasantly, feeling a bit more bright-spirited than she had been moments ago. Her legs were a bit numb and prickly from sitting on that ridiculously tall stool, that in combination with her teetering heels set her balance on edge. She tentatively placed a hand around Haymitch's thick arm for support, surprised and a bit pleased that he didn't pull away.

"I am. This's some kinda pop. I don't really like it. I don't like drinks that tickle the back of my nose."

"Then why drink it?"

"'Cause if I hold it in my mouth just right, it burns kinda like vodka. I ain't choosy."

"'_Am not_,'" Effie corrected softly. "Well? What was all that about in there about Peeta's voice?"

He glanced down at her, then took another drink from his bottle. "Why don't you just take the damn things off?"

"_Because _I—wait, you wouldn't mind?" she asked hesitantly, even hopefully. It was drawing near the end of the day, and she could feel the calluses on the backs of her heels trying to rub open.

"Unless yer feet reek er something," his mutter bore an extra amount of growl to it.

Effie scowled. "Of course they—wouldn't—" she toed the expensive things off and carried them by the back straps with her fingers. Suddenly, a blush crept up her cheeks. Strange. Was it because she was walking around barefoot in someone's company? Or was it because it was just Haymitch, who likely wouldn't even care if she wore a pair of underpants over her wig, or perhaps not even notice at all? With that thought, she relaxed her posture a bit, reveling in the relief settling into her neck and shoulders with an audible sigh. If only she could loosen her belt, perhaps even remove her pantyhose…

"Peeta's in love with Katniss," said Haymitch suddenly.

Effie snapped out of her reverie of a nice hot bath. "_What?_"

"Says he's been for years."

"Well, that's—I mean—it's very—is _that _why he asked to be trained separately?"

"Yeah."

"Then what could he _possibly_ learn from you?" Effie chuckled with mirth.

"He's under the impression that I'm gonna be able to teach him how a man acts when he's in love, instead of that boyish schoolboy crap he's been tryin'."

Effie's laughter increased into a veritable fit, doubling her over at the waist. "_You? _Teach him how to—how to—?"

Suddenly, Effie was pressed bodily into a wall. The breath was gone from her lungs as she became aware that she was being held there by big, strong hands that covered part of her upper arms as well. She looked up, startled to find that Haymitch was looking down at her in a way that was both menacing and alluring. He was intent, but not quite in a violent way. The abrupt presence of his body's soft warmth, the smells of old alcohol and some kind of soap or cologne, conflicted with the visibly rugged texture of the skin of his face and neck.

Scars. Plenty of them. More than his fair share. More than from his journey in the arena all those years ago. Was Haymitch a brawler, the sort to start fights in whatever bars and taverns he wasn't banned from? Somehow, that image didn't fit him, not when his warmth and scents were so close to her.

They were on his hands, too. She could feel the rough creases and folds and calluses on the backs of his fingers as he touched her cheek, rubbing it softly, more softly, more tenderly than she could ever imagine Haymitch capable. All her life, whenever she thought of Haymitch, she had seen the boy from the arena, not the man he was today. But even that boy was a tainted image. He wasn't always the boy with a firm grip, a grip designed for holding much deadlier things than a woman's hand, for holding knives. Like that knife he slept with when sleep claimed him at last.

Looking up at him now, she could see a bit of something in his eyes, something that could be a relic of the boy Haymitch Abernathy was before his name was drawn for the second Quarter Quell. A relic of tranquility, mildness. Things about him his mother probably adored, even praised him for.

Suddenly, she hated that she hadn't known that version of Haymitch. Had that Haymitch was capable of tenderness, of compassion, more than the dull illusion he was giving off right now?

But when he leaned down, she found herself leaning up, trying to cut through the small distance between them, longing for something, something only part of her understood, a part that wasn't communicating with her at the moment. She wanted to know the answer. She wanted to know him. She wanted—

He pulled away from her, taking the surprising softness about him with him. There was still warmth, but not quite his, unless it had been transferred beneath Effie's skin and ignited hundreds of smaller fires underneath.

"I still have a few tricks, little lady." He said, brow arched, drinking from the bottle in his hand again. She watched, short of breath, as he walked away, wiping what spilled from his mouth and onto his chin with the back of his hand.

Effie peeled herself from the wall, feeling somehow boneless, and straightened her clothes. Though nothing happened to make them messy. Nothing more than a handhold, not even a kiss…

With a faint, bemused smile on her face, she trotted off after Haymitch, but after finding he was much further ahead than she was, she changed course, and went to her room instead.

…

**TBC**


	2. 2 Effie

_So, I have job interview at ten in morning._

_Instead of sleeping, I stayed up until 2am to write this._

_Here's some feels for you._

_Any mistakes are mine and induced by lack of sleep.  
_

…

**EFFIE**

…

There was once a queen far, far back in history named Marie Antoinette. It was Effie's understanding that she did not have a very long life, but if she had lived long enough—until, say, she were in her sixties—she was certain she would look as Mother did now. A starkly white face, interrupted only by acid pink lips, eyelashes, and a mole penciled on the crest of her cheek; a towering white wig, and a dress so voluminous that should she ever have the unfortunate luck of falling into a body of water so small as puddle, she would likely drown instantly.

With their tributes now safely stowed away in one of the most secure buildings in the Capitol, Effie found a bit of time between intensive scheduling and Katniss's _painful _etiquette crash-courses to visit home.

It wasn't that she wanted to, however. In fact, she would rather stay in that penthouse discussing with Cinna and Portia what sorts of fabrics would be most comfortable and what colors would be most suitable for Katniss and Peeta. Effie and Katniss were both roughly the same height and build, so Cinna liked to borrow her for preliminary fittings to see how certain designs would work once on a moving body when the younger girl was busy training or strategizing with Haymitch. Portia didn't have terribly steady hands when it came to pinning straight needles into fabric, and oftentimes Effie would be pricked in the thigh or arm. Even still, she would prefer that over a visit home.

She didn't have much say in the matter, though. She could never disobey Mother. It was nice, however, to see her father. If only he hadn't gone off for a nap and left Effie and Mother alone. She understood, he was older than Mother by ten years, and older bodies had certain limits, even with the Capitol's abundance of any sort of prescription you could ever dream of needing.

"So," Mother sipped at the tea in her cup. "How are things at your…job?"

Effie noted the pause in Mother's question. "Fine, thank you," she answered curtly.

Effie personally had a glass of whatever was strongest in her parents' bar. Unfortunately, she had to settle for white wine. Maybe Haymitch would have a flask of whiskey to spare on her return. She suspected it would take a great deal of begging to get one willingly from him. She couldn't request any from the kitchen staff, in case it got back that she was asking for extra liquor to her superiors. She wasn't neglecting her job, she just couldn't handle a night of sobriety after a day with the woman who gave birth to her.

"I hear you may actually stand a chance of winning this year. 'The girl on fire' is the talk of the town."

Effie did her best to keep her expression from souring. First of all, Peeta had been "on fire," too, but the attention between tributes from the same district tended to lean toward one or the other at this point in the Games anyway. But Effie knew Mother's shorthand by now. She had _heard _about Effie's tributes because she hadn't actually seen. Viewing of the Games coverage may have been so socially expected that it became mandatory in the Capitol, but that didn't mean Mother had paid much attention.

Mother never paid much attention to Effie, unless she thought she was at fault. Then attention was solely upon her.

"Is she really?" Effie said lightly, her hand trembling just slightly. "I wouldn't know. I've been so _busy _working, I haven't had time to so much as leave the penthouse in the past three days."

"Work. Is that what you call it?"

Effie looked up from her glass. "Pardon?"

Mother's brightly colored lips quirked. The swirls of her inked on eyebrows furrowed downward quickly. _Step back! Step back! _Effie's mind shouted, but it was too late.

There was a sharp bite in her shoulder where Mother's china cup of hot tea shattered on impact. Effie's eyes didn't even water. Crying only made matters worse. Crying only made Mother angrier. She clenched her teeth together so tightly it seemed possible her jaw might snap.

It was nearly impossible to tell through the blinding sear of the scalding chamomile tea, but Effie believed her shoulder might be cut as well as blistering. Through her whitening vision, Effie realized this was the wrong day to wear an off-the-shoulder dress. An insane little chuckle escaped her lips when she remembered Cinna's and Portia's approval at her ensemble and Haymitch's surprise at seeing so much of her skin. Her friends understood her. Mother wouldn't approve of her friends.

"You worthless girl!" Mother shouted. Mother screamed. Mother was upset. "You had _years _of training in etiquette! _Years_ of hard work and toiling over you—_wasted!_ You could have had any man you wanted! Men have been _driveling _over you since you were eleven! So many marriage proposals tossed to the wayside because _you _had to be _happy! _'Love,'" she said the word with a sickening curl of the syllable, "doesn't exist! You had to get a _job_, an utterly trifling little fling of yours, I assume? Just like Baxter Verge when you were sixteen."

Effie's body tensed. Getting to know Baxter Verge had been Mother's idea. Leaving the party with Baxter Verge had been Mother's idea. A maniac grin was stretching her face as Mother continued. The pain was too much. What if she died? Wouldn't that be something? She didn't want to remember Baxter, she didn't want to remember anything. Dying would be nice.

"Oh, when I found him leaving your room that night—you thought I was still at that soiree. I beat any of those silly notions of 'love' out of your head that night, and I will continue to do it! Don't think that this job of yours has earned you any independence! You need me, and always will! When this little flash of fame, at being the escort of the hour and your fluffy little campaign ads, you will come _crawling _back to me!" she stood from her seat. "Oh, don't you look at me like that. You know I only want what's best for you."

Effie didn't move an inch when Mother walked toward her, kissed her forehead, and situated Effie's wig. "Straighten up, dear," she smiled, "the day is yours."

Mother left the room. From a storm to a breeze. Effie always hated the weather in her parents' home. After a moment, as though waiting to see the coast was clear, the small staff that worked in the house came flocking to Effie, cleaning up her shoulder, placing ice on her aching skin, offering her something to drink as they cleaned the mess Mother left behind. Effie ignored them, her laughter dying out as pain finally, really settled in. It was all she could do pick herself up from the chair, holding the ice pack to her shoulder, dragging her feet to the familiar bedroom door.

It was dark inside. Effie could hear the soft _push, sigh, push, sigh _of the less-familiar oxygen machine. There was a faint slant of light from the side of the thick drapes, it fell softly over the sleeping body in the bed. Effie stood there, watching her father sleep in the quiet that always came once Mother had finished raging. The room was nearly dissected in how different the décor appeared on either side of the bed. On the left, where Mother slept, it was pristine and spotless, with a small vase of flowers and a shifting photo frame that cycled images of life that all predated Effie's existence. She tried not to read into that.

Her father's side was taken up by a respirator machine and some sort of gizmo that kept record of his heartbeat. The bedside table held rows of prescription bottles, different little pills that the doctor had assigned to keep seemingly every piece of his body working.

The machine's beeping changed before the body stirred in the bed. "Who's there…?"

Effie stepped into the room, she used the shadows to hide her new damages. "It's only me," she hated that her lips trembled when she spoke. "Don't worry. Go back to sleep."

"…_Euphemia_…_?_"

Her real name. That he seemed to question it was her gave her a pang of sadness, but she hardly ever heard it anymore, not with tenderness. Her mother used it, when she deigned to refer to her daughter directly. "_Years of hard work and toiling over you—wasted!_" Effie closed her eyes tightly, wanting to scream "_I'm sorry that being my mother was so difficult for you!_" but didn't. She never had, never would. That sentence had been sitting on a shelf in her mind for so long that she doubted it would even work if she dusted it off.

She forced a smile. That was easier than breathing to her. She only had to put on this same grin every year, for days on end. Really, the pain in her shoulder was only a fraction of how it festered inside of her on those days. Unfortunately, it was that time of year again presently, that compiled with her newest injury—not Mother's remarks, those weren't anything new—made it positively unbearable.

"Daddy," her voice broke. She buckled, her knees crashing to the floor, and cried into the blankets. So was so hurt, so tired.

His hand on hers made some of the pain go away. Daddy always knew how to make everything better. Mother only hurt. Daddy only loved.

…

"Well, _this _is interesting." Haymitch leaned against his doorframe, drumming his fingers against the wood. "Spotless little Miss Trinket, asking for hard liquor? My, my, my. You know, I'd be more surprised if this didn't happen every year. What's the matter, sweetheart? Does sending children off to small-scale war only just _now _get to you?"

There was an awful glint in his eyes. If Haymitch was combative and confrontational inebriated, he was even worse sober. Capable of more things. Mother was capable of more things when she was sober, too. Mother was always sober.

She tensed, turning her face away. She saw Haymitch shift, drawing himself back. That didn't make sense. Mother usually stood her ground when Effie flinched—but Haymitch wasn't Mother. Mother was unkind. But neither was Haymitch. Haymitch was rude and crass and belligerent…but _he_ drew back…

"I think I have what you need," he murmured, sounding a bit distracted and thrown. Effie wondered why, but not too hard. There was still pain in her shoulder from earlier today. There were salves on her skin to help speed the healing process, but Effie disliked using heavier medications and remedies for healing. They usually involved needles, and Effie disliked them more than muggy days that frizzed her wigs. "Here. 'S not like I'm getting much use out of the stuff right now."

"I forgot," Effie took the brown, discolored bottle. It looked old. "You've been trying to keep sober for the two of them. You must really believe they have a chance."

"I don't try to 'believe' in much," he grumbled. "I'm surprised that steel-trap of yours disremembered something like that. You turned down more booze at dinner just the other night because of it."

Had she? Through the slight drowsiness coming from the salves bleeding into the cut and burn on her shoulder, she could hardly recall what she did earlier this morning. "Oh, yes," she blinked, and looked up at him with honest bewilderment. "You knew I didn't take any because I was worried about you?"

Haymitch looked away quickly, covering his mouth with his hand. She could hear him mutter something under his palm. "…_was nothing_…"

Effie pursed her lips, feeling a bit wobbly. But she wouldn't be satisfied until she had completely blacked out all her senses. Mother was particularly awful today, and it was all her fault.

"Well, all the same, thank you for this. I'll return the bottle in the morning."

"Same as always, little lady."

Effie almost managed a smile. For the moment, she didn't hate the little nickname. His deep voice almost reminded her of her father, how he said her real name in a deep, wary tone. She needed that right now. "Same as always."

He shut the door, and Effie somehow got into her room. Fortunately, her room wasn't far from Haymitch's. Too tired to change, she kicked off her heels, peeled off her clothes and wig, and slid into a bath that was ready so quickly it almost seemed instantaneous. An involuntary sigh escaped her mouth, but almost at once turned into a wince. The hot water hurt her shoulder. She sat up and curled forward. After taking a few moments to fuss around with the bubbles, situating and molding and reforming them, dotting her nails with the suds and even building herself a foamy beard, she realized she was only delaying the inevitable. This was how it was every year. It was tradition.

She took the bottle, and sipped. Interesting. Usually, Haymitch lent her something that burned on the way down, like whiskey. This was almost smooth in comparison. After a few more tentative sips, she realized it was sweet, too. Her senses were shot tonight, it seemed. She should have recognized the cherry wine the instant it made contact with her tongue.

Haymitch was full of surprises. She had confided in him once, in passing, not even at length, that cherry wine was a bit of a guilty favorite of hers. It wasn't something that was served often to adults in the Capitol. It was intended for the younger crowd. As a slightly weaker liquor, teens could drink it in small quantities at parties. Though, from Effie's experience, the "small quantities" were never very small at all. Cherry wine had been her first taste of alcohol, and it had lingered with her. That Haymitch had remembered that made her skin fill with heat, but she cast it aside as the warmth of the tub.

Until she recalled something else. Today just seemed a day full of reminiscing. First Baxter Verge, and now this. Cherry wine had been the first drink that she and Haymitch had ever had together. No, not _together_. But they had been in the same room, at the same table, only chairs away.

It was at one of the parties held for Haymitch after his victory in the second Quarter Quell. She'd overheard that it was his first taste of alcohol that night, and she pleaded with Mother for the night to be the same event for her. Mother said no. Daddy secretly ordered a bit of the wine and slid his glass over her way so she could take a sip. It was wonderful and awful all at once. She had wondered if the anguish on Haymitch's face was from the bitter acidity of the new kind of drink, too. But she knew that wasn't it. The look of anguish somehow both increased and diminished as he took drink after drink.

Now that she was older, she wondered if that had been the night that Haymitch began to wander down the path of becoming an alcoholic. It seemed wretchedly likely. Effie knew herself how welcoming the oblivion of a bender could be. As she continued drinking from the bottle, she thought about what life would be like in a continued state of drunkenness. To never really remember everything, but always haunted by what visions your drunken mind would bring up. To fumble in the darkness, when standing in reality was too much to bear. Yes, she could see the appeal in such a life with every drink she took. But that would change in the morning. It always would.

She stood from the bath. The pain her shoulder was efficiently smothered by the undeniable pull of the wine. Her giggling was back, but at least this time it wasn't in pain. Or so she thought. Really she couldn't feel much of anything, other than her gratitude toward Haymitch.

Haymitch.

She drew on a robe, wondering what that peculiar prickle was in her shoulder, but not really caring. Still wet, she stepped out into the hall. It was much cooler out here. Her whole body seemed so warm, toasty, light, weightless. Her body was humming. It felt like little warm spores of gold were spreading in her veins. Even the edges of her vision began to glitter with it. This was delight. She felt grateful that Haymitch had given her this feeling, and wanted to return the favor.

He clearly wasn't expecting to see her again when he opened the door after her continuous knocking. There were dark circles under his eyes that Effie hadn't noticed before. She seemed to notice everything about him now. How there was a slit in the neckline of his shirt, that a callous marred his thumb, leaving it chalky white, that his eyelashes weren't quite black, but a deep sort of brown. His hands were strong, sturdy, hands that could have created if he hadn't been forced to destroy all those years ago. His hair was tangled, but it looked like it would be soft if it were washed properly. His eyes, the irises, they were a deep sort of grey. They reminded Effie of clouds, or stars, or the sky on a snowy afternoon.

Huh. In his own way, when she looked at the pieces and then at the whole, Haymitch was almost beautiful.

"What are you doing?"

"I believe," Effie spoke from behind his fingers, the words barely breath, "I'm trying to _kiss _you."

She moved upward again, but he stopped her. "You're drunk."

"Funny how the table's turned, isn't it?" She laughed, she couldn't stop laughing. Everything was so right. "Kiss me, Haymitch…touch me. See? I'm so warm."

She took his hand and placed it on her cheek, letting the callous on his thumb touch the edge of her lips. She kissed it very softly.

He drew his hand back. He drew himself back. Again.

"Why?" Effie's vision began to tremble. "Why are you moving away?"

"You're _drunk_," he repeated. "You won't remember this at all in the morning. I won't bring it up. Go to bed."

Her lips trembled. "_No._"

"Eff—"

"No! Don't push me away!" She stepped toward him. He backed up. The process repeated until she was stamping into his room. He seemed adamant not to touch her. Her sight liquefied. "You don't want me? Don't you like me? Don't you?"

"Eff—are you crying?"

"Damn you, Haymitch!" She screamed, throwing pillows at him. "Damn you! Don't walk away! Don't move away from me! Stop moving! STOP IT! Don't leave me!"

Suddenly, all power in her legs seemed to vanish. She was on the floor instantly. Her shoulder hurt so much. Her head hurt so much. Her chest hurt so much. Didn't anyone want her near? Not Mother. Daddy couldn't have her too near, he was too ill. Haymitch wasn't like Mother. He was kinder. He was gentler. So why wouldn't he let her at least kiss him?

She was vaguely aware that she was being carried away. She couldn't do anything to stop whoever it was. She leaned into the warm body, wrapping her arms around their neck, suddenly very cold, as if all heat was draining into her injury. Tears wouldn't stop leaking from her eyes. Her body was shaking. When she was placed gently into bed, whoever had been carrying her took extra measures to tuck her in. She felt warm, safe, secure. She hadn't be handled like a child in so many years, she'd forgotten what being cared for tenderly could feel like.

Whoever had carried her, tucked her in, brushed her hair—short and an awful, ugly mousy color—off of her forehead. Before their hand drew away, she could feel just the slightest rough patch of skin on their thumb. Haymitch.

Effie burrowed into her blankets and prayed that morning would never come.

…

TBC


	3. 3 Haymitch

**HAYMITCH**

…

When he thought of Effie, he thought of her as full and vivid and bright. None of those preconceived notions were remotely accurate. He learned that firsthand tonight. His previous conceptions of Effie was completely obliterated and cleared away like debris from an explosion—and what a spectacular explosion it was.

Up until the moment that she came to his door for the second time, he'd thought of her as something…solid, in a way. Something that remained constant. She was always abuzz, always aglow. Shining and moving. A firefly, like the ones that dotted the hillsides of District 12 in the thick heat of summer, when the sun went down and the sky was a deep purple that was just beginning to be broken through by stars over the trees. Effie had only really looked like that familiar scenery—the tentative glow of the fireflies, the sight of day giving way to night—once in all the time he had known her, but that wasn't really an event he liked to dwell on. It was too bad, because those summer nights were Haymitch's favorite time of the year.

Right now, she wasn't like a balmy summer night. She was a storm. She was a bomb. She was a supernova. She was a star dying out, giving one last brilliant burst before dying and fizzling out of the night sky.

When Haymitch was a boy, he used to try and jump toward the late evening sky, reaching up for fistfuls of stars to stow away in the little mason jar his mother could afford to spare. Then his mother showed him the wandering stars, the ones that fluttered around with wings just feet from him, ready to be caught if only he was both quick and gentle enough. It had taken him a while, but he had caught one. He would catch only one, and let it go just before bed. He knew all too well what it felt like to be trapped in a place too small, to be suffocated. Even at barely six years old, he knew.

Effie was still like a firefly, even now that her starry light had fizzled out, and her wings were clipped. He looked at her, where she lay crumpled on the floor sobbing. Her robe had slipped from her shoulder, showing a great deal more skin than had been exposed earlier this afternoon with that dress of hers. He wasn't fixated on the pieces of her that stitched her together as a woman, though.

There was an ugly discoloration on her shoulder. He could see that it had some kind of cream or ointment on it, probably to numb the pain. What had happened? First of all, how did someone like _Effie Trinket_, a soft but spirited firefly, get a nasty wound like that? He tried to remember what she had said about where she was going this morning before departing. Just this once, he regretted that he hadn't been paying much attention to what she'd been saying—though she talked so _much _it was nearly impossible to tell what was important or not when she spoke—and he regretted that he'd spent much of that time staring at her shoulders. He was doing the same now, but this was different.

He knelt down in front of her, unsure of what to do with himself. Was he supposed to say something? Pat her head? Tell her everything was going to be all right, even when he didn't even know what could've possibly been wrong? Was she crying because her shoulder was in pain? Was it because he wouldn't kiss her? Because even if he'd been completely plastered, Haymitch would've been able to read the look in Effie's eyes. It wasn't just a kiss she had been after.

Her parents. That's where she was going. He remembered now. She'd mentioned it while twirling in her dress for Cinna and Portia to marvel at—admittedly, he'd been just a bit impressed himself. Pink would always be Effie's color, and she wore it well. Not this sort of pink, though. Not the painful pink that was gouged into her shoulder. She must have been in agony. Haymitch didn't imagine that she had much experience with physical stress of nearly any kind, and pain was about as stressful as stress got.

"Eff," he murmured, his voice not exactly _gentle_, but definitely quieter. "Come on, I'm taking you to your room. No complainin', or I'll leave you sleeping in the hallway."

She didn't say anything. Haymitch didn't imagine she could articulate much of anything through all the sobbing she was doing. He stood, his face contorted with a mixture of reluctance and uselessness. He didn't know what to do when someone cried. Usually, he was too drunk to care or too drunk to be helpful. Sobriety was like a new machine to him, and he didn't know where all the controls were.

He picked her up, nearly toppling backward in surprise—she was light. _Really _light. He'd always thought she'd be more…plump? Softer. Well, he supposed the skin behind her knees was plenty soft, as far as skin went, but she was thin. _Thin_. Her arms were scrawnier than what he'd seen from afar. He could feel her ribs; almost count them against his arm as she shifted in his grip. When she threw her arms around his neck, crying into the space between it and his shoulder, murmuring about her father, Haymitch felt like he was carrying a child off to bed.

He remembered when he was small and had scary dreams, about monsters or wolves or, most dauntingly, the reaping. When that happened, his parents would let him crawl into their already small bed, made smaller still by the new addition. They would hold him between them, and he'd fall asleep feeling utterly safe with the assurance that they were there. Effie seemed to always make him think of far-off days.

He thought about just leaving her on the bed and making a quick exit. The last thing he wanted was for rumors to spread that the two were visiting each other's rooms in the night. As if it were an every day occurrence! He placed her on top of the bed, but was unsatisfied. She looked cold. He would _never _hear the end of it if she pieced together that he'd left her shivering and wet on top of the blankets, especially if she got a cold.

Grumbling a bit, he managed to maneuver her between the down comforter and the sheets. She immediately bunched more covers around her and curled into the fetal position. He cursed. She looked like a fucking_ kid! _Effie, who was always so womanly and adult and punctual and proper, looked like she was seven years old. Was that even physically possible? He sighed and shook his head—something caught his eye. He bent down, and gently swiped some hair from Effie's forehead.

There was a cut there, just above the eyebrow. That, and the wound on her shoulder…had all that happened at her parents', on the way to there? Had there been some accident? It was a strange place to get hurt accidentally. Gently, he peeled the comforter from Effie's side and examined the injury a bit more carefully. It wasn't just a gash; the skin was puffed up too badly for that. Though it was healing, there was an oblong splotch that didn't follow the pattern of the cut. Was that a burn?

"Effie," he spoke her name with real softness now, not just a lowered tone. He may need to coax this answer out of her. "Effie, who did this to you?"

"…_Mmm_…" she shook her head weakly.

"Effie, come on."

"_No_…" she moaned, promptly pressing her lips tightly together, trembling. Great, more tears. But Haymitch felt a spark of cold in his belly. Something didn't sit right with him about this. It was his gut again. He'd always had a keen sense of right and wrong. Was it a boyfriend of hers? Had he lashed out at her?

"Little lady, c'mon. I won't tell anyone. It'll be our secret. Cross my heart."

"…_Mmmm_…"

"Eff—"

"…_Mother_. She was angry. I made her angry. It…it was _my fault…_" she started to cry harder, reaching out blindly and grabbing tight hold of Haymitch's hand in both of hers.

Haymitch wished he never asked. He had heard of this kind of thing, and though it was quite an uncommon situation in the Seam, he'd still known a kid or two that'd gotten a few whaps to the backside with a spoon or a switch. One boy he'd known, before he was reaped, had gotten a black-eye from his father. But that was nothing like this. Never before had he heard of a mother lashing out a daughter in this way. Judging by Effie's complete spiral out of reality, there was something more going on than just a bit of physical abuse.

Effie was a firefly. The boy in Haymitch wanted to catch her, to take hold of her glow as a wandering, winged star, and put her in a glass jar. It was safer in that jar, now that her wings were gone, now that her light was gone. Come morning, they may grow back, but for the moment, she was wingless and vulnerable. He wanted to capture her and keep her safe, to enclose her in a glass jar as his mother had shown him. To enclose her in safe arms as his parents had done for him.

Gently, he eased himself onto the bed. All curled up, she fit right into him—her toes touching his lap, her bony knees touching his chest, her head curled under his chin. He let Effie burrow into his chest, shaking and sobbing and hiccupping.

For the moment, he was her mason jar, but his protection was temporary and fragile. Jars were made of glass, and even just the slightest breeze could topple it over, sending it crashing down to earth. It had happened once to one of his captured fireflies before, and it was the last time he kept one overnight. The mason jar had fallen off the railing of the Abernathys small porch. Haymitch had rushed out excitedly the next morning to greet his new friend, only to be greeted with a sight that sent him crying into his mother's arms.

The jar had shattered, killing the firefly in the process. Fragile things needed protection, but there was no way to deny the inevitable.

…

TBC

Please review :)


	4. 4 Haymitch

Hooray for more updates!

Um, btw, I don't remember the exact sequence of events in _The Hunger Games _in terms of what happened when involving Haymitch and Effie and the training and all that, so don't be alarmed if this seems a bit jumbled up.

…

**HAYMITCH**

…

"I don't suppose you slipped something in my drink last night?"

Haymitch stopped dead in the doorway, his foot still in the air above the threshold into the dining room. He composed himself quickly, quicker than he would have just weeks ago, and took his seat. Effie was up sooner than he thought her capable of. When he'd turned off the bath this morning, he'd noticed that Effie had drunk nearly the whole bottle of old wine. It was okay, of course. It was intended for her after all. He just wondered if he had misjudged her stamina—a burn, a couple of deep cuts, sedative medication, and nearly a whole bottle of liquor would have certainly knocked him off his feet.

But Effie was standing facing an open cabinet, in her wickedly high-heels and one of her usual skintight ensembles. Not pink today, nothing neon. Today, she looked sort of like the foliage once produced by the lilac tree near the house he had grown up in. Soft, subtle, fragrant almost by sight alone. Growing up, he'd hated the thing. During the spring and summer, his mother spent long stretches of time pruning it and collecting the flowers to sell or keep around the house, taking her from him for hours at a time when he was very small. In the fall and winter, his father spent hours keeping it alive so his mother would be able to enjoy it when spring came 'round again. Oh, how he'd hated it.

But when the Capitol destroyed everything he'd ever considered good in his life, and he found himself standing before it in the backyard, shovel in hand, he fell to the ground and cried like a newborn fresh into the world. It had to go. It had to. There were too many memories in this tree—of his parents' hands going to work to keep it beautiful and thriving, the only real spot of color in the Seam; of his mother sitting in the tree's split and jolting forward out of the leaves and flowers to latch onto his father's back; of sharing the tree's shade with his girlfriend as they sipped weak tea, and shared their first kiss. But it had to go.

He uprooted the whole damn thing. Its roots were so long and tangled that it took him hours. They had almost reached beneath the house. But it was done. In the morning, it would be burned. But it seemed wrong, somehow, to completely say goodbye. He plucked every lilac from the branches, until his back was flaming, until his fingers were bleeding. That day was the first time he ventured into the Hob. He learned from Ripper how to make wine from the lilacs.

He'd meant only to keep it, never to drink it. But soon he had his first taste of liquor at a Capitol party, held only days after the death of—everyone, everything, himself. To drink was a customary form of mourning in nearly every district, so why wouldn't it be okay for him to mourn a little? That first taste of liquor was also his first taste of Effie, the first time they'd crossed paths. She'd looked like a summer night then, in a dress of dark violet and much less makeup than she wore now, even her hair had been almost normal, in a wig a shade of white that was almost violet too. Her eyes were still the same odd blue—to bright to be like the ocean, too deep to be like the sky.

That night, he had returned home and drank the whole bottle of lilac wine. Right now, Effie looked so much like that wine that he could drink her whole—but that was a dangerous thought that needed to be shot right through the head, so he moved right along.

"If you woke up with your panties on, I ain't done nothin' to ya."

Haymitch knew, of course, that Effie hadn't woken up with much on. That she was still wet from the bath last night when she knocked on his door that second time told him that she had run straight to his room without putting anything on under her robe. So, naturally, Effie's round eyes grew wide.

"Haymitch _Abernathy!_"

"Effie _Trinket_," he mocked both her voice and her accent with a high falsetto.

"Seneca Crane."

Effie and Haymitch both turned to the new voice. The head Gamemaker stood in the doorway beside the redheaded Avox that was already inching out of the room. He pinched the girl's rear on the way out—Haymitch had to close his eyes and bite down on his cheek to keep him from throwing one of the big glass bottles of sparkling water at him.

Without waiting for an invitation, Seneca made his way toward the table, though Effie made sure to meet him halfway and latch onto his arm with a brilliant smile as they spoke in a low volume, the volume you used when you knew your conversation needed to only be between you and one other person. Was she getting back at him for the panty comment? If so, then the little prickle in his chest at noticing how sluggish her footsteps seemed was because he was satisfied she was tired, not because he wanted to tuck her back into bed for another hour in hopes she would rest up.

"Isn't this against the rules?" Haymitch grumbled, grabbing a piece of plain toast and slathering it with enough butter to give a cow a coronary. Odd, the toast broke in half under the knife. You'd think he was using unnecessary force—oh. Somehow, Seneca's presence was pissing him off more than usual. He leaned away from his toast with folded arms. He couldn't get his back to slouch, it was almost like his muscles were contracting, trying to make him look bigger. He hadn't felt so on the offensive in years. "You, showing up in one of the districts' quarters like this?"

"I'm not here for business," said Seneca lightly. "This is a…personal call."

"Well," Haymitch huffed. "I'm flattered."

Seneca glared. "Not _you_," he turned to Effie, who had chosen to sit beside _him_ for some reason, not beside Haymitch. She always sat in the seat beside where he sat at the head of the table. Weird. She and Seneca delved into a conversation that had Effie giggling quietly in barely a moment, and Haymitch narrowed his eyes. They were whispering. Smiling. Playfully touching.

Oh. _Oh_. He understood. He loaded up his plate with food, not really seeing what he was grabbing. All he could see was how Effie occasionally touched Seneca's shoulder. How Seneca kept his hand on her knee. It was like watching someone touch a butterfly's wings—their greasy, oily fingers saturated the delicate material and weighed them down, they might even tear them—it was somehow wrong and perverse.

On second thought, Haymitch wasn't hungry after all. He dumped his full plate into the trash, and spent the rest of the morning in his room.

…

"You're not going to find her in there."

Haymitch spun from the door—Effie's door—feeling like he was caught stealing something, or about to. He folded his arms, staring down at Peeta. "And where would I find her?"

Peeta seemed to notice that, despite how out of shape Haymitch was, he was still much bigger than him, because he backed away. "I don't know. I saw her get into the elevator maybe thirty minutes ago? Maybe she's going to see her family again or something."

Haymitch's jaw clenched. He hoped not. Obviously, her last visit had been far from eventful, and he'd rather not have her sobbing on his floor again.

"Why are you looking for her, anyway?" Peeta eyed him curiously, suspiciously. "Is anything wrong? This has to be about Katniss's eleven, right? I thought you said there was nothing that could happen to her, even if Seneca Crane is upset!"

Haymitch really didn't feel like discussing Peeta's honorable virtues and chivalrous protectiveness. It had been endearing at first, enough to get him to agree to "coach" the baker's son on how to—God help him—_woo_ a girl. Fortunately for Peeta, Haymitch's last experience with courtship was with a girl Katniss's age, though she definitely hadn't been as oblivious as the hunter girl. However, _now_ Peeta's constant gentlemanliness was wearing thin in its appeal. Women didn't always go for the dashing well-to-do fellow that saved her from evil, and people didn't necessarily always flock to that sort of person. Haymitch's mentor had taught him that—not everything could be solved diplomatically, not everything could be dealt with by the fists.

"Mama Bear and Papa Bear need to talk for a bit about their _darling_ little cubs who won't _mind their own damn business_."

Peeta stepped back. "Fair enough, _Papa_. Like I said, she left a bit ago. Maybe you can wait her out in the television room or something."

"Or something," he grunted and pushed past the boy. Really, even he didn't know why he was looking for Effie. Ever since the head Gamemaker showed up at breakfast, there had been a little something tugging at him, like he desperately needed to ask a question but had forgotten the reason why.

He left the penthouse, the elevator descended to one of the lower floors by default, so no district could spy on another. He couldn't leave. Effie had a bit more freedom—she lived in the Capitol, she had family here, friends. Haymitch was alone. He had an obligation as mentor to be nearer his tributes, even if Effie technically took half those responsibilities since there was only Haymitch to rely on. He was trapped, adrift. If it weren't for Effie forcing him into different waters at every which way and turn, guiding him through the currents and throwing him life jackets and sending him back shore, he would've been dragged under by the Capitol's tide a long, long time ago.

Did he…almost _appreciate _her? Haymitch's lungs tensed to laugh—but another sort of laughter beat him to it. Giggling. Girlish, tinkling giggling. It was coming from behind a small door, probably a supply closet. The laughter was followed by some banging, too—oh. Couldn't anyone in the Capitol keep it in their pants? He shook his head with disgust, rubbing at his forehead. Nowhere seemed distant enough. There was a tight buzzing in his head, squeezing his head like it were an alligator biting down on his skull.

The buzzing raged into a such a deafening crescendo that he heard nothing at all when the door opened and out stumbled Seneca Crane. His outfit was obviously just thrown back on, he was zipping up his pants—just finished with the deed. He looked over at Haymitch from the corner of his eye as he smoothed down his hair, smiling sheepishly. He also looked expectant, as if he were waiting for Haymitch to nod or smirk back.

His face grew irrevocably still when Effie ever-so-calmly walked out of the supply closet, too, fixing her wig and makeup. The mirror in her hand fell to the floor and shattered on impact.

"Haymitch—"

The buzzing whited out Haymitch's vision. He didn't even realize he had stormed back into the elevator until Effie came in after him, breathless as she just barely missed the doors swishing closed behind her.

"Haymitch, what are you—?"

He spun around, pushing her by the shoulders into the side of the elevator, into the emergency stop button. The lights flickered and he jumped away from her when she yelped—her damn shoulder. How could he have forgotten? He threw a punch at the metal wall, filling the small space with an echoing bang. He turned, very slowly, not wanting to see the look on her face, but it was just as he'd expected. Wide-eyed, lips trembling—oh, he hadn't expected anger.

"What the _hell _is wrong with you?" her voice was thick and low, as though people were watching. "First, you punch Seneca Crane's jaw, then you throw _me _into a wall?"

Seneca Crane's…? Ah, now he felt it, the biting burn in his knuckles. Maybe he'd broken a finger.

"Is this how it happened?" the questions escaped before he could stop them. "Is _that _how she got that eleven? Is it?"

Effie's mouth dropped open in an O. "Are you _insinuating _that Katniss only got her score because I'm having sex with Seneca?"

Haymitch narrowed his eyes. "Right out with it, huh?"

"What? Well, of course, Haymitch. It's only sex; it's no big deal. He's an old friend and I haven't had a _moment _to speak with him privately since I came back to the Cap—"

"Old _friend? _That's how you greet a _friend?_"

Effie looked legitimately baffled. "Well…well, yes…"

"Effie…!" Haymitch clenched his hands in the air, wanting something, _someone _to strangle. "That's not how that _works! _Have some _fucking respect for yourself!_"

Lip quivering, she hit the emergency stop button again, bringing the elevator back to life, and spent the rest of the ride up with her arms folded. She didn't say anything to Haymitch as they parted ways, and Haymitch returned to his room, slamming his forehead against his door.

"What the _hell _was that?" he muttered to himself, opened his trunk, and pulled out a bottle of liquor. To drink or not to drink? Yes, that was the question.

…

TBC


	5. 5 Effie

Hoorah, hoorah! An update for ya!

Yeah, no. That actually doesn't rhyme much at all. And even if it did, _lame_.

…

**EFFIE**

…

"What the _hell _was that?" Effie muttered to herself. Her heart was still beating too rapidly.

_Calm down, calm down. Haymitch isn't Mother. He isn't._

He wouldn't follow her into her room to slap more sense into her. Obviously she had done wrong, though. Why shouldn't he come back to beat whatever lesson he thought she needed to learn into her head?

She waited. One minute. Two. Three. Five passed with horrid slowness, her pulse seeming to nearly stop and gain the role of control over time, bringing on the seconds only when it decided to move. Finally, it was too much to bear. Sometimes, Mother expected Effie to seek her out for punishment, otherwise the consequences would be even more severe. Perhaps Haymitch was playing the same game. Luckily, Effie knew the rules.

She left her room, tiptoed diagonally across the corridor, tracing her way along the wall with her fingers. She realized halfway to her destination that she was stalling, lollygagging, tarrying. She took in a large breath and all but charged to Haymitch's door, nearly hitting her forehead against the polished wooden surface. She knocked, her eardrums seeming to beat like actual drums somewhere inside her skull. No answer, unless she couldn't hear him over the rhythm of the steady drumbeats in her head.

"H-Haymitch?" she cleared her throat, knocking again. "Haymitch, please, I'm—"

She was what? Sorry? What did she have to be sorry for? For being a friend? For being her own woman? Mother wouldn't have minded. Seneca was the head Gamemaker. No, Mother would have been thrilled. Out of all of Effie's previous lovers, Seneca was the most well-to-do of them all.

So why was Haymitch so upset?

She opened the door. For a moment, she thought the room was empty until she saw Haymitch sitting in an armchair in the dark, just out of the light of a lamp that beamed down onto a table before him. She approached him, nearly walking on the very points of her toes.

"Are you very angry with me?" Effie asked, barely breathing.

Haymitch said nothing. He looked like her father when he was upset, silent and undemanding, wordlessly stewing in a big armchair. Effie didn't want to see her father in Haymitch, but it wouldn't stop. There was one way to make Daddy happy again when he was upset, one that worked sometimes when she was smaller.

Slowly, she took off her shoes, and lowered herself beside Haymitch in the oversize armchair, leaning against him, her legs bridged across his lap. When he didn't deny her, she slipped her arm behind his shoulders, placing her hand on his neck. Just like how she held onto Daddy when he was terribly upset with her.

Haymitch didn't pull away. He seemed paralyzed, utterly transfixed on the bottle of liquor on the table before him. Fittingly, the bottle was placed in just such a way that one of the dim overhead lights fell solely on it, spotlighting it, making it glow. At the moment, it seemed even enticing to Effie. How she wanted a drink, for that humming oblivion. The bottle looked familiar, somehow. Dark, a bit warped with age, but she couldn't place where she'd seen it before.

"Haymitch?"

He said nothing.

A spark set off in her chest—not anger, but perhaps indignation. He didn't understand. Really, she hadn't expected him to. She also hadn't expected him to be so upset. It was nothing. Seneca was nothing. All men were nothing.

But Haymitch was a man, and he was real beneath her touch, and somehow he didn't seem like nothing. That was what parted her lips.

"There's a girl who has never really been by understood anyone, Haymitch." She settled in better beside him, draping his arm around her shoulder, resting her head against his shoulder as best she could, but her wig kept slipping. She saw that his free hand was trembling. She touched it softly, it was cold and hers was no warmer. "She was born into a family that had once cared for her equally, but that was before she could speak, of course. Before she could think for herself, have her own ideas. Her father thought it charming that she spent an extra thirty minutes in the bathtub every night, believing she was a mermaid scouring the deeps, singing made up songs about the sea, until her skin was pruned and pink.

"Mother found no humor in it. Mother didn't think it cute. The new bruises took over places where the girl had imagined rainbow scales just moments before—they were covered easily enough, though. No, Mother was a shy artist, she didn't want her handiwork known. The next day, Mother took the girl to get her eyes dyed. A scary procedure that doctors advise parents to wait until their children are over the age of sixteen—the girl was only nine. They don't put you under for it. You're awake as the needle goes through your eye. The dye burns for days after. The girl found through experience that tears only made the pain worse.

"But she couldn't spend hours bathing in the tub if her eyes were bandaged, and the dye temporarily took her sight away. The girl never sang again. Each time the little girl tried—and _tried _to do right, to do good, Mother only got upset." Effie's lips trembled. She realized only marginally that she was squeezing Haymitch's hand with enough strength to shatter a porcelain cup, but Haymitch was much sturdier than porcelain, his skin was not unmarred like porcelain. He was nothing like Mother and Daddy. "Mother was kind when she wanted to be, of course. Or maybe she couldn't even decide that. She made the girl become overly-kind, appear unassuming, taught her etiquette and held manners above all things.

"'_Never disobey._' '_Never ask questions_.' '_Crying only warrants more punishment._' '_Men are all women have to depend on._' '_Never deny a man anything he wants from you_.' '_No, don't you dare turn down Baxter Verge! Baxter Verge could cement your place in our society!_' So the little girl did not turn down Baxter Verge. The night she turned sixteen, there was a big party. Mother encouraged the girl to spend the evening close to him. He led her out onto the patio. Then upstairs. Then to her bedroom. They kissed. It was nice enough. He made her feel fluttery, as if she were pretty. But he made the most awful face when she tried to remove her wig, he asked her to put on more lipstick when it smudged too much from their kisses. He didn't seem to mind it when her mascara began to run from her tears.

"He pinned her to the floor. He forced the kisses to deepen. He ripped her pantyhose. The little girl couldn't scream—'_Never raise your voice!_' was pounding through her ears. '_Never deny a man!_' So she stopped moving. Stopped struggling. Baxter Verge kept whispering how beautiful she was, how lucky he was. But it wasn't beauty in the moment. Luck wasn't what he had on his side. 'Luck' implies there was a chance he wouldn't succeed. But he did. He invaded the girl. Tore into her body, became one with it and her memories. No, she would never—ever forget him.

"Mother returned home an hour later, just as Baxter was through. She caught him leaving. She let him leave. It wasn't his fault. The little girl was to blame. She had let him into her bed. Only she hadn't let him into her bed. Baxter Verge didn't even have the courtesy to allow her the modesty of sheets. He left her naked on the floor. The new bruises, the new scales—" Effie drew in a breath that hurt her chest more than not breathing in at all, more than suffocation "—left the little girl longing for the sea.

"But there's no sea in the Capitol. Mother destroyed her little daydreams, so there were no imaginary depths any longer. So would anyone have blamed her for seeking comfort in others' arms? _Is that so wrong? _Mother doesn't love her, Daddy turns a blind eye, so why shouldn't she look for love with others, even if it's only temporary? Even if their temporary love leaves bruises, too? _SHE DESERVES TO BE LOVED!_"

Heat blazed through her. She couldn't see. She had no idea where she was. Her ears were filled with an awful, deafening roar, like birds' wings frantically fluttering to escape from something unnatural and predatory, like water was surrounding her. But a voice cut through it all, gruff and comforting in its familiarity.

"She does, Eff. She does."

Effie gasped. She was digging her nails into Haymitch's hand, into his neck. Haymitch was no longer looking at the bottle. His eyes were closed. Was he sleeping? Was he upset? Had she said too much?

"Are you still terribly upset?" Effie pressed her face into his chest. "Do you hate me?"

Seconds ticked by. _Tick, tock. _Over and over again. Effie felt utterly drained, as if she had been sliced open and her energy was just pouring from her. She thought she might fall asleep herself. Then a weight was lifted from her head. Her wig was gone, replaced instead by Haymitch's hand.

An unexpected sigh escaped her lips as a flush dashed across her cheeks. The feeling of his fingers lazily running through her messily cut short hair was surprisingly wonderful, even as he maneuvered around tangles produced from her wig. She realized then that no one had ever really touched this part of her, not since she was very small. Every other inch and cranny and cavern had been scoured and explored, but this part was a secret from the rest of the world. Even her own parents rarely saw her hair, and her many lovers definitely never glimpsed it. So this touch, though simple…was so insanely embarrassing and intimate that Effie's vision blotted out briefly. There was no way Haymitch could have any idea how much it affected her, and she had no intentions of letting him know. She didn't want him to stop.

She trembled, a curl of want for…something, something she knew at least that she had never had, ambled through her. She wasn't used to desires that couldn't be sated.

"I'm not upset, sweetheart." He let out a breath. "I was just thinking that I didn't understand you."

Her eyes pinched shut harder. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Because now, I do understand."

"And you hate me for it," she tensed, starting to recoil away. "You hate me, as you should. I'm too needy. I want too much. Too, too much. I want—"

"I don't hate you," he said with exasperation. "You're still the same old Effie—if I didn't hate you _before_, I wouldn't hate you now."

"Oh," she let out a small, nervous chuckle. "Now I feel silly."

"Yeah, well you should." He muttered, his voice no more than a growl in his throat. She hazarded a glance up and saw that his eyes were closed. His breathing was slowing.

"Haymitch," Effie let out an involuntary yawn. "…We'll fall asleep…at this rate."

"Sounds about right," his words were hardly coherent, barely sounds stitched together. "Silly little girl…"

For once, Effie wandered into dreams with laughter on her lips instead of cries. Even in her slowly diminishing consciousness, she knew this peace between the two of them was only temporary, but it was lovely while it lasted. It was the first time Effie dreamed of deep seas and songs in years, and in them, her bruises and burns turned into dazzling scales. She'd never felt more beautiful in her entire life.

…

TBC


	6. 6 Haymitch

_So, I'm completely doing away with that whole two chapters of Effie, then two chapters of Haymitch bit._

_I'm just giving whoever I want a perspective whenever I want._

_So, here we go._

…

**HAYMITCH**

…

_ "You must be Mr. Abernathy," said the shimmering pink escort, likely fresh out of that fancy all-girl academy in the Capitol. _

_ Haymitch didn't even get up from his chair as he took swig after swig from his bottle, ignoring her outstretched hand. He noted instantly, though, that her nails were perfectly manicured and coated in a blinding shade of sparkly pink. Haymitch despised pink. Haymitch despised all bright colors. Even her dress was nearly the same shade, so tight that he supposed he was meant to see her every curve—though she was so young it felt almost criminal to believe that was the case—but the color was too bright, and drowned out all semblance of humanity in her person. He could tell what she was like from the very way she held herself—utterly perfect posture, but just a hint of defensiveness in her stance, like she was hiding pieces of herself from the casual viewing eye. She was sheltered, she was fresh, she was nubile. She wouldn't last two Games._

_ She moved onward quickly, which Haymitch gave her credit for. The previous escort was nearly brought to a complete halt by his cold shoulder._

_ "My name is Effie Trinket, it is an _honor _to meet you, Mr. Abernathy." She trilled, clutching the steel clipboard in front of her torso as she bounced on the balls of her feet._

_ "Oh ho ho," Haymitch chuckled derisively, making a great show of looking everywhere but directly at her. "I know your type."_

_ She ceased bouncing._

_ "My…type…?"_

_ "I would've suspected a bit more from you," he didn't even try to suppress a belch. "Not much, obviously, but more. You seemed like such an innocent little thing."_

_ "I'm…terribly sorry, Mr. Haymitch. I don't understand—"_

_ "No, I didn't think you would. Obviously, you wouldn't. _You _people don't understand much. You're all so busy making sure you've got cloth napkins at your dinner places that you can't even be bothered to see what _monsters _you all are."_

_ The new escort rocked back on her heels. "I beg your pardon?"_

_ "You must be one twisted piece of work," he continued, finally looking at her full in her inhuman blue eyes. Nothing about the Capitol was human. Nothing. They were all monsters, the whole lot of them. If Haymitch wasn't put out of his misery, his exposure to the breed would start to change him, making him into one of them, too. Maybe this time would be it. He had been tactful before, snidely slipping remarks to the previous escorts, but they'd all been to stupid and obliging to do anything about it. Maybe being direct with this featherweight of a girl would finally get his neck on the chopping block. After all, what had he to live for? "To not only enjoy the carnage from your screen every year, but to feel the need to lead the young to their deaths by the hand? Oof. Little lady," he took another sip, "you're the worst monster of them all."_

_ Then she slapped his cheek, and for the first time in a long time, he felt a bit of fight in him._

_ And, perhaps most importantly, a bit of respect._

…

_ "I've only had cherry wine once before," Effie chortled._

_ She was leaning a little too close to Haymitch from her place beside him at the table. At the far end, the newest victor was chatting animatedly with his mentors and President Snow. From the looks of it, he was reenacting how he had dismembered the District 12 tributes piece by piece with a long knife he'd acquired at the Cornucopia, going so far as to recreate his cuts on two roasted Cornish hens. President Snow's raucous laughter nearly eclipsed Effie's, but her light musical laughter still managed to cut through his rage and eased his grip on the glass cracking in his hands._

_ "I can't believe you grabbed a few glasses of this!"_

_ "I just need a glass of something," he muttered, turning the now fractured glass this way and that, watching the flickering candlelight from the overhead chandeliers make strange rainbows through the cracks and slivers._

_ "It's meant for the children, you idiot." Though there was no hint of malice in her state of rapidly increasing inebriation. "It was a celebration feast weeks after you won the Quell…"_

_ "What?" Haymitch was startled into attention. Suddenly, the world seemed to hush, even if only in his mind, and Effie's story was the sole source of sound in the room._

_ "You _cannot _tell a soul about this. I was so young and—don't laugh—_excited _to be there. You were having the wine, too. I just had to have some myself, you know? So I did; well my father gave me a bit of help, I wasn't old enough to get it on my own. I had a bit too much and—my word, I can barely remember the rest of that night. I remember…I remember going outside, yes? No…onto a balcony…? Well, someone was there. They had more of the wine. We shared it together. I can't think of even a possible explanation for why I decided to drink more. I suppose I became…" she colored, turning more red than she already was from all the wine she'd already had. "Drunk. I don't remember much else, other than…well, I had lied to Mother about why I felt so awful."_

_ Haymitch cleared what felt was a thirty foot wall from his throat. "What'd you say?"_

_ She looked at him, wide-eyed and utterly amazed at what she was going to say. "I told her I was _sick."

"_That's it?"_

_ "And she hugged me that night, before sending me up to bed. She held me for more than a few seconds. She even brushed my hair from my face—she was only checking for a fever, but she fussed over me. Really, honestly, fussed."_

_ Haymitch furrowed his brows. "And that's strange?"_

_ "No," she shook her head, "it was wonderful."_

_ "I don't understand why you were so excited."_

_ "Neither did Mother," her expression abruptly darkened as she finished another glass of wine, "which was probably why she never fussed over me again."_

…

Haymitch stirred violently. He so masterfully put of sleep, but during long nights there was so much more time for reminiscing. Memories came back to him like birds coming home to roost with such vivacity these days that sometimes it was almost impossible to discern past from present, dream from reality. It all blended together, meshed. Especially on these nights, the ones that took place only once a year. It was a horrible anniversary, one the Capitol would never let him shirk away from.

It was tradition. They stayed up for as long as they possibly could, taking shifts sleeping, waiting for the inevitable moment when their tributes were no more. It was the only time when he saw Effie in a state less than perfect. Her pink wig had lost a great amount of volume and curl, her makeup was smudged and flaky and faded, her clothes were even crumpled. He wondered what her mother would think of her, if she knew that her job meant lowering herself to this state for even a few hours once a year.

Sure, Effie was a busybody, nosy, shrill, utterly prompt and wholly demanding, but she was a good person, for the most part. Capitol or no, she was no Satan incarnate. She was even, some days, kind of easy on the eyes—not that Haymitch was into her look. It was just that, sometimes, Effie didn't look entirely like a woman who would beat you half to death for not using a coaster when you set your glass on an expensive wood table. She also seemed to care, too. She'd thrown an extra level of effort into Katniss and Peeta's public personas, going to lengths she'd never gone to before to make sure that they were always on the peoples' tongues. She claimed it was because of their "marketable reputations," but Haymitch suspected it had something to do with Katniss's display of complete selflessness at the Reaping.

All in all, Effie wasn't a completely terrible person.

So why did he get the feeling that her mother didn't see any of that in her at all?

Suddenly, Effie seized hold of his arm. Haymitch forced his attention back to the screen, his eyes slower to focus after days spent in the dark, but the scene was easy enough for him to discern without full vision.

Katniss's new ally lay dead in her grasp. In the few moments he'd dozed off, he'd missed something that would likely change Katniss for the rest of her life.

Haymitch watched as tears slipped from Effie's eyes, down her eyelashes, her makeup dyeing them a shade of violet. Katniss's song made his throat tight. He knew that song. He'd even heard the girl's father sing it once, when he was passing the woods on his way to the Hob. He stopped just as the birds did, eager to hear him sing. Now, the whole world had stopped. The whole world was listening to Katniss, the girl on fire, the girl who sang like a mockingjay.

And yet he couldn't get himself to look away from Effie, though he could see the reflected image of the fallen girl from 11 clearly in Effie's wide eyes. His world was shifting. Changing. He didn't like it, but no amount of will could make it stop. When Katniss's song finished, and Effie had finally collected herself enough to articulate that what Katniss had done—burying the girl in flowers, giving her a proper salute into death—was beautifully uncharacteristic, Haymitch hung his head, his face in his hands. It was a feeling of betrayal, a feeling of defeat.

What was Effie doing to him?

…

TBC

…

Ha.

Ha ha.

Aha ha ha ha.

Oh my God, that was ridiculously short.

I'm so sorry.

I have work in the morning.

I had to finish this.

Omfg.

So sorry.

Leave a rant in a review if you want to get across your rage at how ridiculously short and underdeveloped this is.

Shit.

No more deadlines for _me._


	7. 7 Effie

_I'm time-jumping a lot, guys. I'm like a Time Lord up in heah._

_Anyway, this chapter takes place in The Hunger Games, but the next occurs somewhere between that and Catching Fire. Really, the plot's linear, but it hopes around a lot, rather episodically. I hope you guys like it, though I might have to disregard some canon._

…

**EFFIE**

…

They'd won. _They _had won.

"D-Did you s-see?" Effie took hold of Haymitch's arm what seemed the trillionth time in two weeks.

"Yeah," he said soberly. "Yeah, I did."

Effie wiped big, grateful tears from her eyes. "Well, don't go out of your way to show your enthusiasm, _Mr. Abernathy_," she added like a sting. "They're alive! We've won!"

"I heard," he muttered.

Effie didn't like the quiet nature suddenly overtaking Haymitch. Never in all her career had District 12 gotten close to victory, but here they had _two _victors, and quite possibly because of hers and Haymitch's active efforts to make sure their kids weren't forgotten, yet Haymitch was showing no signs of emotion, not even superiority. She'd expected him to be raucous, but he was positively pensive.

"What's wrong?" she fought down the urgent edge in her query. "You're not telling me something. You _always _keep me out of the loop, Haymitch. I want to know what's going on!"

He bit his thumb, seeming like he wasn't going to answer, but when he looked at her, Effie regretted calling him out. He seemed aged, he seemed weathered, he seemed beaten—defeated.

"You've seen my Quell, right?" his tone was knowing.

Effie would never forget his time in the Games, when it seemed she was the only one in the world begging and pleading and bargaining for Haymitch's safe passage through the arena. She still lamented his lost vigor and vivacity, something she'd adored and pined for via the screen for years, the vigor and vivacity that had prompted her to buy magazines with his interviews and head-shots, his trading cards. She'd even begged a long-forgotten acquaintance for a recording of the Games.

She cherished that Haymitch.

This Haymitch…she didn't know what to do with him.

"Yeah, well, that thing with the axe?" he prompted, and she nodded. "That was stupid. _Real _stupid. Do you wanna know why?"

His tone made it seem like she shouldn't do anything, not move an inch, not give him a single reason to go on and elaborate. But she had to know. Was she tired of being left out, or was her desire to be brought into something by Haymitch's hands so great that she would sacrifice her well-being in the process?

It was so wretchedly that second reason that she not only nodded, she covered his tightly clasped hands in both of hers. "Tell me."

"Our government saw it as a willing act of rebellion, and they decided to make my life as pleasant as a pool of pig shite. _They_ decided the best way to squash any 'untoward ideas' outta me was the squash everything I cared for. They took my family, they took my girl, they took everything. _They _took everything, when I didn't have much to begin with."

Effie's mouth felt as if it were pried open. She knew that Haymitch's family, his father and mother and brother, had passed on long ago, but the reason or causes of death were never clearly defined in the Capitol. The air in her lungs seemed to burn up, and she was left a silent mass of slowly fuming indignation and remorse. She hadn't known, hadn't realized. He was just as lost as she was.

"Now look at Katniss," he continued, oblivious to the sad epiphany blooming in Effie's mind so largely that it almost overtook her vision. "She ain't got much of anything, either, but they don't care. They'll take anything they can, but they don't keep it. They're greedy bastards; they're that kid from down the road that doesn't just wanna take your favorite toy or your lunch, they want to destroy and devour them in front of you, make you watch. Katniss tried to show them that death is wrong, she tried to change their ideals, and that _scared them_."

"W-will," Effie found some semblance of her voice, "will they…?"

"Do anything?" he finished for her with a derisive sort of chuckle. "Little lady, the Capitol doesn't like being _scared_. No one can tell them what they're doing is wrong, and _certainly _not someone so beneath them as a fatherless waif from the Seam. They'll have their revenge."

"But she _hasn't done anything wrong!_" Effie burst out, surprising the both of them with the heat and new rage now building within her, a spark unleashed into even the densest and lushest of forests had the potential to ignite.

Haymitch's face slowly morphed from shock, to appraising, then finally into something like appreciative. "Well, then, doll—looks like we're in agreement."

Effie knew she should've bristled at the new condescending nickname, but too much of her was inwardly glowing at Haymitch's subtle praise, adding to the rebellious spark within her tenfold. Their shared smile spoke volumes, but it felt as if Haymitch was the only one who understood the silent language at the moment.

No matter. She would force a translation from him later.

…

Katniss was finally released from the Capitol's care. Effie had never seen Haymitch more wracked with worry and regret than he had during the few days between her victory and her recovery. Though Peeta's loss was much worse, he at least was conscious. There were so many potential ailments that could have secretly overtaken her—a virus, an infection, perhaps from something as small as a scratch or a bite from an unseen bug or spider. Anything.

And so they waited. Peeta with a look of utter fear and failure and devastation plastered on his face, his breath deep and forced as he stroked the nub that remained of his missing leg. Haymitch with his drinking, and occasionally accepting either Effie's or Peeta's hand when offered to squeeze. Effie didn't know about Peeta, but she could hardly feel her fingers when Haymitch decided enough contact was enough.

She knew why this hit him so squarely in the chest. He'd told Katniss to do all she could to win; he was sober this year, but most importantly, and he would never admit this to anyone, but he viewed himself as some sort of surrogate male authority figure in the girl's life. Whether it was as a father, a brother, an acquaintance, whatever.

"She reminds me of him," Haymitch said quietly, almost to himself, as Peeta had his turn visiting Katniss's unconscious form. "My little brother."

Before Effie could press for more information, monitors started going off in Katniss's room. She was awake, and Effie would have to wait to sate the hunger for more details until a later time.

…

She never thought a phone could change her life so drastically. They were silly little things, phones. So small and unassuming on their own. So, perhaps the phone was not the culprit, not really.

Effie just desperately didn't want to hear, or believe, the voice on the other end.

She pushed it aside, though. No need to let that information out. No, Katniss was returning from the hospital today.

They'd put her under again after she'd awoken, afraid she would hurt herself or wasn't fully recovered. She could still picture the horrible scene in her head: Katniss, hardly conscious, forcing herself to stand, her gown barely clinging to her as half her skin was warped and gnarled in the midst of a body polish. The sight filled Effie with a sort of sticky, suffocating bitterness that made it hard for her to swallow.

The Capitol had literally reshaped Katniss. Reshaped her, though she was already such a pretty girl. Would she look any different after being at their mercy? Would they take away her earthy colors, her brown hair and tanned skin? She hated the idea of it being changed into something so unnatural as a dark blue or a light orange—especially when she realized it was not Katniss she was picturing being changed after a time, but Haymitch.

Oh, this was not good. _Not good, not good, not good—_

"Effie," Haymitch caught her by the wrist. "What're you crying for?"

She'd stormed from the room at the sight of Katniss. She was okay, she was whole, she was still herself. She was alive. Alive when…

"He's dead, Haymitch," Effie whimpered, her voice caught mysteriously somewhere between a strangled whisper and a scream. "Daddy, my daddy, he—"

She drew her arm away from him, spinning away from him. Seeing the living was too difficult to stomach when something so constant and wonderful was truly, honestly, irrevocably _gone_. But when Haymitch forced her to look at him, his face curious and reluctant, she realized that looking at Haymitch wasn't much like looking at the living at all. Just like looking at herself in the mirror wasn't like looking at the living either. By pieces and slivers, they were both dead. Nothing but corpses playing pretend.

"I can't go to that funeral," she gasped, pressing a hand over her mouth. Her tears were so salty that they stung her lips, broken where she repeatedly bit them. "I _can't_."

"But you have to," he said softly, knowingly. "If you don't you'll regret it forever. You think it'll stop, but it won't. Regret doesn't work like that, it hasn't worked like that for as long as it's been around."

"Oh, what do _you_ know?" she said fiercely.

"I know because I still regret not going to the only ones that mattered," he answered hotly, chastising her. "My mother's, my brother's—not even Maysilee's."

Disgustingly, Effie's first reaction was utter and unbridled jealousy at how Haymitch so tenderly formed the girl's name in his mouth. Had he loved her? So many people insisted that he had, and the announcers during the Games had perpetuated that idea. Effie herself didn't know what to make of it, and she doubted she would ever know, even though she had the direct source there at her disposal.

It was that awful, selfish piece of her that made her do what she was about to. It was devious, it was calculating, but it would feel oh so good.

"I—I can't go, n-not," she drew in her lip in a half-fake whimper, "not by myself."

There was a feeling of grotesque satisfaction when Haymitch drew himself up to full height and cleared his throat.

"Then I'll go with you."

"Oh, Haymitch," she breathed, using the moment as an excuse to press herself against him. Oddly, there was a feeling of familiarity when she buried her face into his chest and he awkwardly patted her hair, but there was no reason for it to be so. "_Thank you_."

If Effie ever needed proof that she was a terrible person, it was this moment right now: the day she lived up to all of her mother's expectations. The feelings of sorrow and loss and anger at her father's passing mixed strangely with the jealousy and satisfaction and regret burgeoning within her, and she thought she wouldn't be able to support herself under the weight of it all.

Whether Haymitch's arms were there to support her were a good thing was hard to determine.

…

**TBC**


End file.
